


Tangle

by Callisto



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He looks at his brother, who still seems to be waiting for an answer. “We’re taking some time, Dean. A couple of hours out of the car is not going to kill us.” Dean scowls, clearly unconvinced. Sam slaps his own hands down in exasperation. “Look, nothing needs hunting right this minute, we both slept for shit last night, and I... I wanna finish my book, okay?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JoJo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJo/gifts).



> Beta'd by the lovely Ancasta.

“Dude, quit stalling and get your ass down here.”

Sam squints up and sees Dean’s head swivel back yet again to where the Impala is parked on a dirt road above them.

If it didn’t hurt his face, Sam would roll his eyes. “Dean—”

“Yeah, yeah, Susie Homemaker. Just sit there on your blanket and chill, okay? Jesus.”

The sun behind Dean is making Sam’s eyes water, but he watches his brother make his way down the grassy incline. Concern for where and how the Impala is parked isn’t the only reason Dean seems reluctant to let go of the tree.

Dean reaches him and sits down heavily on Sam’s right side, knocking Sam’s knee as he overbalances slightly. Sam puts out a steadying hand which Dean instantly bats away. Dean looks around and starts rubbing his bad knee, the one the Wendigo seemed to think should bend more to the left than nature intended. Then Dean suddenly stops rubbing, raises both hands, and slaps them back down on his thighs. “What the fuck are we doing here, Sam?” He glares at the surrounding scenery, and then at Sam.

Sam sniffs – his nose and left eye are still a little puffy and bruised from that same Wendigo, and it’s lucky for him that even with a limp, Dean is handy with a blow torch. Then he too looks around. It is ridiculously pretty. Long grass, and tiny purple and yellow flowers sloping down to what sounds like a stream about a hundred yards away, tall trees dotted around behind them, the sun high in the sky, and a light breeze blowing through it all. Sam glimpsed it from the road as they wound their way up. He saw it slip in and out of sight and then take shape as something really rather lovely once the road leveled off. He was driving at the time because, immense bitching session aside, Dean’s knee just cannot keep a constant enough pressure on the gas pedal to handle mountain roads right now. Not that Dean accepted Sam’s say-so on this, of course. They almost slid off a gravel bank into a ditch before Dean grudgingly handed over the keys and slammed out of the driver’s side without a word.

So when Sam impulsively pulled the car over, grabbed his book and shook four guns out of a ratty old blanket in the trunk, Dean had little choice but to act mystified and limp out of the car after him.

And now Sam has a tree at his back, long fragrant grass under his feet, and no one but Dean as far as the eye can see. So yeah, he’s sitting a spell.

He looks at his brother, who still seems to be waiting for an answer. “We’re taking some time, Dean. A couple of hours out of the car is not going to kill us.” Dean scowls, clearly unconvinced. Sam slaps his own hands down in exasperation. “Look, nothing needs hunting right this minute, we both slept for shit last night, and I... I wanna finish my book, okay?”

He gets an incredulous look for the last, as he knew he would, but he ignores it and picks up his book anyway.

He holds his breath and cracks the spine. If he can just get Dean to fucking do this for once, just—

Dean flops onto his back, sighing dramatically. “Fine. What am _I_ supposed to do, Sammy?”

Sam leans back into the tree and hides his grin in the pages. “I can read aloud, if you want.”

A handful of torn-up grass and earth lands in his lap.

 

Dean falls asleep, which was kind of Sam’s plan all along. He threw nuts and twigs around, asked Sam what every single one was just to be annoying, and then he gradually fell silent when Sam simply turned pages and ignored him.

Sam takes a moment to look his fill. Dean is on his back, booted feet crossed at the ankles, mouth slightly parted, and Sam kind of wants to jump him a little. More than a little.

He adjusts his jeans and tells his traitorous libido to behave. He needs Dean to sleep more than he needs to get off. He is not not NOT a horny teenager anymore.

So he does the next best thing. He dog-ears his book – he’s worked out who did it anyway – and then stretches out on his back alongside his brother. There are no Wendigos to torch, no spirits to salt, no victims to save or bones to burn. There is simply Dean and him, in a field, in the late afternoon sun. He shuts his eyes and can’t help smiling when honest to God actual _birdsong_ filters through...

So. Damn. Cool.

He wakes up once and Dean’s hand is in his, fingers tangled, palms loosely pressed.

He squeezes into the grip and goes straight back to sleep. He dreams of a baseball game for some reason – he’s never played in his life. But there he is, decked out like Derek Jeter and trying to jump over a train track and a Christmas tree on his way to third. He looks up just as one of the decorations – some kind of toy bear? – gets bigger and bigger and then lands softly on his chest.

The birdsong comes back, the bear suddenly smells of wood spice, and it’s breathing in and out on his face as it blocks the sun.

“Hey, Sammy.”

Sam smiles but doesn’t open his eyes yet. He loves Dean like this.

“Hey, Dean.”

Sam is grabby with girls. Something about the fact that he likes them slight maybe, with long hair he can latch onto and wind around his hands. Which is all a million miles and planets away from the insane rollercoaster he’s been on with Dean for the last few months. Any assumptions he ever had about his life, who he could love, and what it all might mean went out with the bathwater the day he realized just why he couldn’t eat, sleep or think straight–pun intended–around his brother anymore. It’s the most bizarre thing, but Dean brings out the romantic in him in a way even Jess didn’t. He kisses Dean’s _nose_ , for Christ’s sake. And Dean kisses his. Even rubs it Eskimo style if he’s had a few beers and Sam has been quiet all day or has a headache.

Right now he gets a kiss on the mouth. No tongue, but it’s nice and warm and sure. He smiles against Dean’s lips. “You held my hand,” he tells him.

“Did not.”

Sam opens his eyes to see an indignant face an inch or two above his own.

“Did too.”

“Eh, I was cold,” says Dean. Like that explains everything.

Sam lays his head back on the blanket and lets it slide.

“Come here, then.”

“Where?”

Sam closes his eyes and grins. “You know, you fucker.”

Dean’s hips press into his and Sam can’t help the groan that puffs out of him.

“What, here?”

Sam can feel the tremor behind the casual question, and he realizes Dean is locking his elbows to keep his bad knee up and off Sam.

“No,” says Sam. He gently tugs on Dean’s shoulders to get him to subside again. He takes Dean with him and rolls them until they’re side by side and facing each other, with Dean’s weight off his right knee.

“Here,” says Sam, leaning in and mouthing at Dean’s jaw. He pushes his own hips forward. “Right fucking _here_...”

It doesn’t take long. Hands undo zippers and reach into boxers, jeans go down as far as necessary, and mouths lock, one to the other, as they breathe and urge and whisper the Winchester version of sweet nothings. “C’mon, Sammy. Right there, God, your fucking hands. I love your fucking... again, Sammy, nearly... nearly... use your thumb, man.”

“You... too,” pants Sam. Dean has a gun callous on the pad of his right thumb that is the most perfect friction in the whole... wide... fucking...

“Dean,” Sam manages, almost jackknifing into Dean as that thumb rubs over the head of his cock and works its magic. “God... _Dean_...” His sore eye waters a little as he presses in and in and in against Dean’s neck. Dean’s left hand holds him steady, fingers almost kneading into his hair.

“Got you, Sammy, I got you. Always got you. Just keep... please... Christ... _Sam_...”

 

Afterwards Sam can’t help himself. Dean sits up fairly quickly, but Sam lies on his back, grinning at the sun and daring the universe to fuck with him on this.

Dean bounces an acorn off his head. “You are such a cornball.”

“Dude, we just had afternoon sex in a meadow. I think I’m entitled.”

He looks up, squinting to get a better view of Dean, who is shaking his head in mock despair. The corner of Dean’s mouth goes up as he reaches down to pick a twig out of Sam’s hair. One he probably put there. “You could have a point. So up. Let’s go kill something.”

“Aww, honey. You say the sweetest things.”

Dean tries to put the twig back in for that, and all Sam can think is so much for the afterglow. But it’s fine, because when Sam reaches back to pull Dean up the incline with him, Dean actually lets him, and they get to more or less hold hands all the way back to the Impala.

Where Dean promptly lets go and stuffs a whole bunch of grass he’s secretly stashed in his jacket down the back of Sam’s neck.

Sam swears, shakes, stomps it out, and he still can’t help smiling.

In Deanspeak? That is afterglow.

******


End file.
